


Bordeaux Boyfriends

by nhpw



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: 2016 US Presidential Election, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Background Relationships, Bottom Misha, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Top Darius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:46:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8617414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nhpw/pseuds/nhpw
Summary: Feeling lonely and in a slump in the aftermath of the 2016 elections, Misha wants physical affection and comfort. Darius is happy to oblige.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Heyyy!! So this is my 50th fic to be published on A03. Woohoo!!
> 
> When I realized my fic count was approaching the big 5-0, I had some grand delusions that I'd make number 50 something absolutely epic. I have at this moment not one but TWO fics in progress that were vying for contention of that spot.
> 
> But then... well, then Misha and Darius livestreams happened, and as a result I wrote this. So, yeah. Happy Fiftieth Fic to me!! Have some smut. :)
> 
> PS, not beta'd, any errors (and there might be errors because I wrote this in kind of a hurry) are mine.

To begin with, it’s important to note that they’ve each had three glasses of wine. Three big goblet-size glasses of a full-bodied, flavorful bordeaux, and the bottle sits before them now, empty, flanked by two equally empty glasses.

Darius knows from a literal lifetime of experience that a drunk Misha is a warm and cuddly Misha, so he’s not at all surprised when his best friend leans toward him on the couch with a closed-lip smile and a soft “hmmm” of contentment.

He accepts the body weight and heat readily against his side, and then his shoulder as Misha’s head dips and he noses affectionately under Darius’ neck.

Darius lets himself smile then, too, and throws an arm around Misha’s neck and shoulders as casually as he can manage. He chuckles warmly from down in his chest at the realization that he hasn’t seen his friend this relaxed, truly relaxed, in months.

A thumb starts idly stroking one of Misha’s strong shoulders. Christ… Darius knew he’d filled out and gone solid in places that used to be mush and bone, but he hadn’t really taken the time to appreciate how genuinely built Misha had become. _Strong of body, strong of mind_ , he thinks.

“Tha’s nice,” Misha mumbles, and rubs his cheek more noticeably against Darius’ chest.

And then - maybe by accident? - Misha presses a kiss to Darius’ sternum.

“Mish,” Darius murmurs in response. “What’s that?”

Misha just shrugs, which is more like a complete flop of his upper body given his current state of relaxation. “Love.”

OK. Definitely not an accident.

And then, before Darius can think, Misha’s tilting his head up and those blue eyes he used to get lost in so easily are looking up at him again, hooded and a little dark with angst and trouble. They stay focused on his own eyes long enough and hard enough that Darius knows it’s intentional. “What do you need, Misha?”

“You.”

Darius groans. It’s been years - not even an exaggeration, literally _years_ \- since he and Misha have done anything physical, but he’s weak to Misha’s whims when they come around, and here one is now, ripe with opportunity Darius knows he can’t pass up. “Don’t be a slut,” he teases, trying to be light but carrying a hint of an edge in his tone. He doesn’t mean it like that, not really, but he does know Misha’s got his fingers in more than one pie right now and he doesn’t want to go screwing up a good thing.

“Hey, fuck you,” comes the reply, still warm like flowing honey, and pressed into his collarbone.

“That’s not how this dynamic works, Misha, you know that.” Still not entirely playful, a bit skeptical of Misha’s intentions, what his next play might be. Darius might be a bit more crass and blunt than his friend, but he’s not stupid. “What’s your status right now?”

“Hmmm? Oh.” Misha flops his hand in the air in dismissal. “Because the world doesn’t suck enough right now, Jensen and Dee’ve got the doors closed on their marriage. Because babies.”

Darius laughs, this time a whole, real laugh, open mouth and everything, and then chances looking down at Misha to study his face. “And Vicki?”

“She’s not home. I’m lonely, Darius. This _sucks_.” Honest, to the point, and Misha sounds on the edge of losing his happy buzz.

“Mmmhmmm.” He allows himself one taste, one kiss, one dip of his tongue into Misha’s lazy mouth, which tastes like red wine and warmth and Misha. Somehow, he still tastes the same as when they were kids, all clumsy limbs and sloppy kisses hidden away in Darius’ mom’s basement. “Call her.”

“You call her.”

“Fine.” And before he can think better of it, Darius grabs his phone off the end table next to him and thumbs up Vicki’s cell number. He shoots a pointed look at Misha before pressing the “call” button and cupping the phone to his ear.

She answers on the third ring.

“The esteemed Mr. Marder. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Darius grins and starts tracing idle patterns on Misha’s inner thigh with his left index finger. “Hello there, lovely lady.”

“Don’t butter me up, Darius. You want in Misha’s pants, you know how to ask like a big boy.”

She always was smarter than both of them combined. It probably helps, too, that she sounds stone-cold sober. “He’s cuddling me unfairly,” Darius relays, and Misha’s face turns pouty.

“I am not. I’m cuddling him completely fairly,” he shouts, probably louder than necessary.

“You two are children.” Darius can practically hear her roll her eyes. “Speaking of children, where are mine while you two responsible adults are three sheets to the wind?”

“Sleeping, they’re sleeping, I promise. Cross my heart,” Misha offers. He completes the action, then tilts his head, looking very Castiel for a heartbeat as he realizes she can’t see him. “I crossed my heart.”

“Whatever you say, Baby. Darius?”

“Yes ma’am?”

“Please don’t break him.”

“Contents fragile. Handle with care. Got it.”

“Hey! I am not-- you motherfu--”

Darius leans over and presses his mouth to Misha’s to swallow the rest of his blasphemy. When he was confident Misha was at least momentarily sated due to lack of oxygen, he turned back to the phone. “So, you’re cool?”

“You know I’m cool, Darius. And not just because I let you fuck my husband.” She laughs lightly at her own joke, and Darius just shakes his head. “Maybe send me a picture. This conference is so dull I want to jam a pen into my eyeball just to get out of it.”

“Consider it done, pretty lady. See you tomorrow.”

“Mmhmm. Love you both.”

Darius closes the phone, slides it back onto the end table, and then ambushes his friend. Gone is the gentleness; Darius consumes Misha’s mouth with his, kissing and licking and biting into that warm cavern until Misha’s squirming and whimpering under him, and then he pulls off and looks down to watch Misha’s chest heave from lack of breath.

“Fuck, Darius.”

He thinks for a second that he might make a joke, but it dies on his tongue as Misha leans up to capture his mouth, and then those hands - Fuck, he’d forgotten how magical Misha’s hands can be - those hands are _everywhere_ , squeezing his ass, tangled in his hair, rubbing his back.

“Stuff’s in the bedroom,” Misha manages without fully pulling away from the kiss. He rocks his hips up to rub their clothed erections together, and Darius groans, fixated, and thrusts back harder. “Or we could just frot like we did when we were 14.”

“Oh, fuck no. We got the green light from your only partner at the moment. I’m not passing this up.” He gives one more heated kiss before pulling away and standing, reaching down with one hand to help Misha to his feet.

It’s a handsy walk to the master bedroom, and somewhere along the way Misha loses his shirt and Darius’ belt and pants come undone. They fall onto the bed in an unceremonious tumble, more one body than two, and then all bets are off: Hands and fingers reaching and clawing and pinching, feeling and squeezing and working to remove frustrating layers of fabric.

When they’re naked and Misha’s on his back, reaching blindly into the nightstand for a bottle of lube he knows is there, Darius rolls his eyes and bats the hand away. “Tell me you don’t pull that scrambly-hand shit with Jensen.”

Misha chuckles beneath him as Darius grabs the bottle of lube, squirts a bit on his hand, and aims one well-lubed finger at his target. “Usually with him, I can see what I’m doing.”

“No shit? You top him?”

“You heard it here first,” Misha grunts and winces as he’s penetrated by a single digit. “Jensen Ackles is a bottom. A whiny, needy bottom at that. Hey, go slow, all right? Been a while.”

“Yeah, yeah.” But Darius turns his movement slow and careful, because when it comes down to it, he would never want to hurt Misha. Far from it. They have a history of great sex - slow and sensual, fun and sloppy, soft and gentle but always _great_ sex - and Darius isn't about to break that track record. Passion, both sexual and non, is what oils the wheels of their relationship.

So he preps Misha with gentle touches, soft, slow penetration and patient hands until his friend is a moaning, squirming mess beneath him. And then, in the midst of a searching kiss and with gently roaming hands over arms that Darius still can’t believe have become so muscular, he presses inside.

For all that their relationship thrives on sass and snark with a sprinkling of sincerity and a lifetime of inside jokes, when they’re intimate, it’s nearly always a silent act. Darius isn’t sure what Misha’s reasons are, but for him, it’s because every fiber of his being is lost in the feeling of _being with Misha_ . Every brain cell is dedicated to making Misha feel good; every one of his senses is focused on the give-and-take of pleasure that flows between them like it never does with _anyone_ else, _ever_.

Except this time is different. Not right away… but they’re somewhere in the middle, both of them scrambling tight hands and clawed fingers over sweat-slick skin as they race toward the cliff but try to avoid reaching it all in the same breath… that Misha sobs. It’s soft - so soft that if Darius wasn’t literally connected to Misha’s body, he might have missed it. But no, it’s a sob, and not a sound of need, not a hiss of pleasure, not something that could be mistaken for anything except what it was. He tears his lips from Misha’s long enough to look down and confirm the tears he’d heard in that sound. They’re flooding Misha’s bright blue eyes, they’re twinkling at the corners, they’re sliding down stubbled cheeks.

“Mish…”

Misha loses it then. Darius watches as his friend implodes, moves all of his pent-up emotions from his heart and releases them out into the world.

Darius pauses his thrusts and takes Misha into a full-body embrace. This position of being Misha’s protector fits like a second skin; Darius has always been the rock, and this time is no different. It’s comfortable, and he doesn’t mind.

Really.

He lets the minutes slide by without much movement; occasionally nuzzles Misha’s hairline, kisses his crown, but mostly, they just stay huddled together until, at long last, Misha noses Darius’ temple and drops a kiss back by his ear. “Thank you.”

“Hmmm… Dmitri.” He lets Misha’s given name - more of a pet name now, when he uses it - slip warmly from his lips and right into Misha’s ear before resuming slow, deep thrusts with his hips. “I’ve got you.”

“I know.”

“You want my hands or my mouth, man?”

There’s a chuckle and then a moan as Misha’s eyes roll back into his head at the question. “Mouth? Please?”

“Anything for you.” Darius picks up his pace, deeper and harder and angled for Misha’s sweet spot, and it’s not long before he’s going over the edge. Misha’s hands steady on Darius’ hips until he stills completely, and then Darius pulls out and ducks his head south without missing a beat.

Truth be told, giving blowjobs isn’t high on Darius’ list of his favorite sexual acts. With other male partners, he’s more stingy about it. But with Misha, there’s history and the feel and taste of him takes Darius back to a time when they were much younger, experimenting with hands and mouths and reveling in the newness of it all. Misha - Dmitri - ignites in Darius a feeling like this is the first time, every time, even though it’s anything but. So he’s not shy about giving it his all, getting lost in pleasuring Misha, sucking him dry and wrapping himself in Misha’s moans of pleasure.

After, he goes to the bathroom to gargle before cuddling up next to Misha in tangled sheets. “Oh, hey,” he says, and reaches one lazy arm for his phone, which had come to rest on the nightstand. “Smile.”

“What?! No!” Misha kicks playfully and rolls away laughing.

“It’s for your wife. Be a good sport.”

“Not Twitter? I will murder you if this turns up on Twitter. My fans are already--”

Darius shrugs and snaps the picture, and what he texts to Vicki is an image of naked Misha, splayed out on the bed about two feet to Darius’ left, one finger raised pointedly and his eyebrows elevated and eyeballs bulging in mid-lecture. _Your freshly fucked husband is an unappreciative little bitch_ , he captions it with a smirk.

“What are you typing? Don’t-- I swear to God, Darius--”

“You don’t believe in God.” He hits send and tosses his phone away before diving after Misha, who shrieks and runs stark naked out of the room.

Darius captures him in a bear hug in the living room, kissing him breathless as a means of keeping his friend close and calming him down. Then he pulls back to look into Misha’s eyes. They still look drunk, and he supposes his own probably aren’t much different. “Hey,” he says, and aims for sincerity, “It went to your wife. No one else. I’ll delete it from my phone before I leave your house. OK?”

“Yeah.” There’s a tweak of a half-smile from the right corner of Misha’s mouth. “OK.”

“How are you feeling?”

“My ass hurts.”

“No.” It’s open for approximately 10,000 jokes, but Darius tilts his head and kisses Misha’s mouth with as much tenderness as he can muster. “How are you _feeling_?”

“Oh. I, uh. Fuck. Darius, I’m… You know part of the reason you’re here is that Vicki was afraid to leave me alone all weekend.”

“I know.”

“What if… What should I do, man? Do I… I feel like… you know, I’m _passing_.”

“With flying rainbow colors and sparkly fireworks, yeah.”

“I feel guilty for that. For all this.” He waves an arm in indication of their surroundings - physical evidence of his apple-pie life. “Am I a coward, Darius?”

“I mean, you won’t let me post that nudie pic to Twitter, so…”

“Shut up, I’m serious.”

Darius sighs. The conversation about whether Misha should stop playing mind games and officially come out to the press, his fans, everyone - it’s nearly as old as his job on Supernatural, and certainly as old as his relationship with Jensen. He shrugs without taking his arms from around around Misha’s middle. “Do you want to? Are you ready? If all of this weren’t happening, would you want to?”

“But all of this _is_ happening.”

“Right. But if it wasn’t.” He leans in and steadies his forehead against Misha’s so that he can look into his friend’s eyes. They must look a bit absurd, he thinks, standing naked in the Vantoch-Collins living room, arms around each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I know it sucks. I know it’s hard. But don’t let that orangutan take this from you. Don’t let him force you. You let him do that, you’re conceding something, and that means he wins.”

“You’re such a sap.” Misha starts to laugh, and then he turns absolutely hysterical, but he’s still standing nude in the circle of Darius’ arms, and if they didn’t look absurd before, they certainly do now.

“We should probably go back to the bedroom before we wake the kids,” Darius offers, and starts to release the embrace.

“Hey.” Misha stops him with a tightening of arms around Darius’ waist. “Thank you.”

“Any time, Dmitri.”

“I hate you so much.”

“I hate you more.” The chase resumes, and Darius finds himself being chased into the master bedroom, still naked as the day he was born, and then tackled onto the bed and covered in a warmly affectionate Misha. This time it’s all kisses and cuddles, and Darius lets himself drown in it.

Eventually, they untangle and calm enough that they’re the perfect picture of modern post-coitus: Both of them have their phones in hand. Misha’s typing out something that Darius can’t see, and he gives Misha a sidelong smile before starting to thumb through his own brand-new shiny Twitter.

“Hey, Mish?”

“Hmmm?”

He turns his head again, but not his body, and aims a confused look at his friend. “Pray tell… what, exactly, is a ‘stan’?”

“It means they hate you. Everyone hates you.”

“Really? Because that’s not what this reads like. I’m pretty sure they think we have sex.”

“We _do_ have sex, Darius.”

“OK but…”

“I’m going to sleep.”

“I’m just saying. I think I have a fanbase. This is a big deal, Misha! They _like_ me!”

“Shut up, Darius.”

“Your pillow talk sucks.”

“Always has. Goodnight.” Misha flops over onto his belly, and Darius laughs softly because he’s still buck naked, and he doesn’t seem to care that his ass is sticking out among the disheveled sheets and blankets.

It’s haphazard and beautiful. Very… well, very _Misha_.

“Goodnight.”


End file.
